Tag Archives: stress

Okay. I cannot do the electronic check-in for my overseas flight. I find that hard to believe. But then again, it’s been at least sixteen years since I have left the country, so what do I know?

Fine, then. Okay.

Get to the airport. That’s pretty easy. It’s a day after Christmas, and I ask my driver if he thinks a lot of people are going back to work this morning.

“Most should,” he says. “But then, again, a lot of people are still off.” He pauses. “Of course, I’m always surprised when there is any traffic, on a day like this.” Another pause: “But that’s LA for ya!”

There is a layer of pink feather clouds, hanging above LAX. It’s pretty, in an exhausted sort of way. A few silver jets sparkle in the sky as they ascend diagonally. What an ambition of the human spirit! A civilization is a succession of wills.

I get out at the curb within the first meter of my terminal’s ground. A giant Lincoln town car attempts to cut me off.

“Just run me ova’, why don’t cha?” I mouth out to its driver with a bluetooth in his ear. Be it the black, floor-long winter coat or the tightly wound nerves (and both are quite suitable for the Eastern European winter), I suddenly feel every bit like the New Yorker I once was before defecting to this coast.

He sees me, doesn’t as much as wave.

A giant line of exhausted passengers outside — kids in silly Christmas sweaters and adults with wrinkly faces — who are waiting in front of the terminal’s sliding doors is just a small preview of the havoc I’m about to endure inside. I do not really know on what grounds I’ve previously assumed that just because United has its own terminal, the flow of today’s events would be well practiced and smooth.

The lines inside are hideous. I find the international portion of the airport and read its awning, “International One Hour Cut-Off.” Someone’s ought to proofread this company’s syntax.

Breathe. I still have almost two hours.

I walk over to the Self Check-In Machines. One carry-on, a winter coat and a laptop. To lug one’s baggage through life is a hideous choice. Forgiveness, no matter how hard, is lighter.

“These are for passengers with only one carry-on,” a short woman on a walkie-talkie grumbles and then proceeds her way.

“Yes,” I watch her get back to the talkie. “I am. Indeed. Just that. M’am.” She is no longer interested.

“TAP HERE TO BEGIN.”

I do.

“ENTER CONFIRMATION OR E-TICKET NUMBER.”

I find a six-digit combination in my printout. That should do the trick.

“NO NUMBER FOUND IN THE SYSTEM.”

Okay. I try another number. Another random combination on the paper.

“NO NUMBER FOUND IN THE SYSTEM.”

You’ve GOT to be kidding!

Okay, okay, okay. Stay chill.

With the most mellow smile that I can manage at this hour of sunrise, I approach the first visible uniformed personnel. And in the background, I suddenly can hear a few hollering infants and some foreign tongues.

I wait my turn, approach the woman. Explain the situation.

“You have to call?” she tells me in her thick Asian accent.

“Excuse me?” (Okay. Be kind. It’s wiser, lighter.)

“You have to call — the company?”

Oh, fuck it. I assume my place in line. The young man in front of me is calm and utterly consumed by his iPad. On his cart, I see a guitar with a lime-green bandana around the handle and one piece of carry-on. Like me, he has forgiven. A couple of hippies with mounts of luggage on their cart are making out ahead. An Asian couple is demurely standing by and holding the handle of a tiny bag, not deserving to be called “a suitcase”.

“And don’t forget the tag?” the Asian attendant hands me two tongues of paper. Apparently, she only responds with questions.

“Thanks for your help,” I say. Mmm-hmm. I’m glad she’s saved the day with these.

I’ve got less than thirty minutes to make it through this line. We’re moving slowly. The grumbling woman with a walkie-talkie reappears. I notice that underneath her United blazer, she’s wearing a summer dress. She, right away, begins to create order.

“Sir! You cannot stand here!” she is demonstrative when speaking to a smartly suited Indian man who, just like me, is carrying no luggage.

“My flight leaves in an hour,” he sings in a way that’s expected from his heritage. “And your ticket machines are broken!”

Okay! So, it was NOT just me! I glance at the now baffled Asian attendant. It feels a little better to know I’m not a solitary idiot, afraid to ask for help.

“Somebody’s GOT to help us!” the Indian businessman continues singing, as if echoing my thoughts. “Somebody’s got to do their job!”

“I’m doing mine just fine, sir!” the walkie-talkie woman grumbles and listens into her gargling apparatus. “Anyone — to Mexico?” she hollers in a moment.

A few timid hands appear above our heads. Their owners are ushered into the line behind the Indian man.

My check-in finally happens, and it happens exactly an hour before my scheduled flight. Ivy — the mellow attendant who takes orders from the walkie-talkie woman in a summer dress, before she serves me — has done her job quite quickly (although she does appear to have typed a whole of a dissertation in order to issue my boarding passes.)

And in the next hour, I do remember Ivy gratefully when our entire gate is transferred to another one, where we, again, proceed our wait. When, finally, we begin boarding:

“As you may have noticed,” a voice comes over the speakers, “we’re experiencing mechanical difficulties. We’ve dealt with three different mechanics and shall be in the air as soon as we are done with our paperwork.”

Today, I studied my city with memories captured in a single, tired glance.

It’s all I can spend on it sometimes: One look — and I’ve gotta keep on moving. Which may be why Los Angeles discovered on foot never resembles the place I think it actually is. It looks different, in walking actuality; and unlike in more pedestrian-friendly places, it doesn’t pulsate with a life. Instead it buzzes. Sometimes, it screeches; and it honks, zooms by like an impatient, swearing driver who nearly runs me over, while making a right on red.

And when I can no longer stand such a mechanical pace, I plead to meet my friends in places that remind me: that there is life, and there is love; and that somehow, in end, we may just all turn out alright.

Today, while I driving across town, I granted other passing faces a single, tired glance: as much as I could hold without averting my eyes in shame at sudden lack of my compassion, once I’d discovered they weren’t accidentally the faces of those I loved. Besides, I only could linger for as long as it was safe for those drudging through the traffic behind me. Then, I’d gotta keep on moving. We all had to.

It started with a girl backing her black SUV out of a driveway on the West Side. At first, she didn’t see me; and normally, immediately outraged, I’d honk and swear, demonstratively delivering my point about being wronged, in her rear-view mirror. Today though, I could use a slower pace. There was no traffic lingering behind me, so I just stopped and waited for her clumsy merger to be completed.

Still, she wouldn’t see me (or, maybe, she merely pretended); and when I drove around her giant car, glossy like the wet back of a killer whale, I saw her left profile. She had a tightly pulled ponytail on the back of her head, perfectly ironed and sleek, with not a single hair out of place. Her lips were glossy and pursing. And then, above a diamond stud, I saw a tiny mechanism jammed into her eardrum.

She was talking, gesticulating at what seemed to be the pace of her speech. Although her windows were tinted, in the back seat, I saw a forest of stiff handles of shopping bags and a few tubes of wrapping paper. Just watching her, I got so tired, I made up my mind to take the slowest lane all the way home — for the next ten miles.

When the front line of cars on my side of the road began rolling under a freeway bridge on Venice, my lane slowed down at a wide intersection. Quite normal, I began to think, especially a day before Christmas: For I’d already witnessed a plentitude of abnormal behaviors this week, which had to be the reason for feeling so completely drained. I lingered for a handful of seconds. I studied my city. The palm trees shimmered above my open sunroof like an old backdrop in theatre no longer doing magical productions.

From in front of the car, leading all of us across, I finally saw a woman bicyclist emerge and slowly make her way through moving traffic.

“Not very smart,” I thought but waited somewhat patiently.

But then I saw a baby trailer attached to the back of the bicycle. A blond head of a child was visible through its netted side wall.

“That woman — is an idiot!” I thought. And normally, I’d keeping on swearing and scoffing, and call the silly mother some terribly unworthy names. Today, though, I looked away; for I myself began to feel exhausted by the lack of reasonable behavior on her part.

A black woman with a drag queen’s eye make-up was ringing a bell in front of my Trader Joe’s. A cross-section of hippies were rushing in inside, then coming out with loaded brown bags. I didn’t see the woman speak: Her call for charity would be completely silent if it weren’t for the arhythmic, tired ringing of her bell. The shoppers seemed indifferent (although one woman faked looking at the pavement, as if she’d lost something). I, too, continued driving, somehow more exhausted by the lack of my compassion than by the disappointment at that of others.

To my gray-faced and tired teller at the bank, I barely uttered a word. The skin under his eyes seemed yellow and ready for the end of the day. It was the height of noon.

“I wish you lovely holidays,” a gentleman at the window to the left of mine completed saying, and by the time I glanced over, he slowly began to walk away.

He was gray haired, in a pair of black suit pants and a tweed jacket, sharp dressy shoes and blood-orange-colored cufflinks picking out from underneath his sleeves. He was old Hollywood, moving at a much more graceful speed and treating time like down payments toward better karma.

“Allow me,” I said, once I had caught up to him and opened the door. I had to!

Despite the obvious exhaustion marked in the lines around his eyes, the man’s glance was mellow, aware and kind. And it was not enough to resurrect my own compassion, but to remember that this time of year — I could better yet.

Finally! I had made it into the elevator whose size always reminded me of one of those loading docks rather than a tight platform meant to transport humans, from the store level down to the garage and back.

Truth be told I rarely even ride in these things. No one really walks in this bloody City; but I still do, despite occasionally fearing for my safety, as I walk alone, along the unknown, dark streets, in search of my vehicle. I don’t even utilize the valet service anymore: I’d rather park my wheels myself and risk getting towed after failing to deconstruct the street signs correctly. (But I do like studying the valets’ uniforms at any fancy joint I visit in someone else’s car: They remind me of characters from The Nutcracker, and somehow, of bedtime stories from back home.)

But I had made a mistake of venturing out into the Hollywood Target, mere three weeks before Christmas. Considering I had quite a list this year, parking downstairs seemed to be the saner choice. And then, quite immediately — it wasn’t.

First, a beat-up Volvo, three cars ahead of mine, seemed to be having difficulties with getting its parking ticket. How hard was it to push a giant, blinking button with “PRESS HERE” clearly tattooed in its center? While the others waited for the parking attendant, I swung into the next lane, nearly grazing the front bumper of a white Beemer driven by a very pretty girl (with very thick make-up — on her very, very pretty face).

“GOOD JOB!” she mouthed at me and waved her left hand. I would be able to tell if she was flipping me off, but the shine of her engagement rock blinded me, for a second. I let her go ahead.

The navigation of the store, with an already somewhat sparse merchandise, quickly turned out to be a practice in patience and unconditional forgiveness — for the entire human race. I squeezed past the Mexican mothers who gave over their carts to their little children. One of them — a loud boy, no older than six — was trying to run over his squealing sister by riding the cart stuffed with plastic toys and plastic storage bins (for the same toys, I assumed). I got out of the way and rode to my destination in between the men’s clothing racks.

The only people dominating seemingly every department — were women. Some were young, dressed in corporate clothes. The older ones demonstrated more self-assurance as they navigated the discounted shelves. Yet, all of them seemed tired and slightly concerned. And Christmas was hardly around the corner yet.

A young couple appeared adorable in the aisle with Christmas trimmings. Well, at least someone was in the spirit! I smiled. From the amount of his willing participation in the discussion of the direct relation of gaudiness to the shades of gold, I wondered if this would be their first holiday together. Eventually, the couple considered settling for a silver theme, after which he cornered her into the wall of garlands and they began making out. Cute. I smiled again. To get out of the aisle though, without interrupting his tongue from doing its tricks inside her mouth, I had to U-turn my shit and negotiate my way with the two young women, starting hatefully at the couple from the other end of the aisle.

It wasn’t like any of us had many choices to choose from, anyway. Be it the plague of the Black Friday, or the poorly evaluated amount of supplies issued by the Target headquarters to begin with — but I was hardly thrilled by less than a handful of my choices. Between the funkily multi-colored themes and the gaudy gold ones (the lovebirds were right), I settled on none. Wrapping paper would be next, but the presence of an exhausted mother, who was rummaging through every box of supplies and not responding to my humble requests for the right of way, tempted me to make a run for the exit.

Still: I persevered. Past the disorganized shelves and the hypnotized shoppers. Past the hopped-up children leaping under my now speeding cart. Past the plaques announcing insane savings and the disinterested Target staff, in their unhip, untucked shirts.

It was a miracle that my check-out clerk was pleasant: He had just come off his lunch break. In mere seconds, I would be in the safety of the elevator. I parked my cart and grabbed my bags. I could’ve walked with those things to my car after all!

A gentlemen in a pair of less than fitted jeans pushed the button. We waited.

“Stress-mas, eh?” he turned to me to eliminate the tension. His less than suave gazes were leaving me luke warm.

“Yep.”

When the doors finally opened, my suitor performed the symbolic gesture of preventing the doors from squishing me. In return, I pushed the button for him. The doors closed and we were alone, riding to the same level. Painfully disappointed by my trip, I pretended to study my receipt.

The couple that joined us on the first level of the garage entered with the sounds of bickering and passive-aggressive scoffs.

If this hour — or weather — were to happen back in LA-LA, I would be the only pedestrian seen for miles.

Well, at least I started off — as a pedestrian. Having left my dear college comrade hibernating in the cocoon of her comforters inside the generously heated West Village apartment, I stepped out into the frosty morning with that blissful gratitude that came from knowing I had nowhere else to be: Nowhere but here, in this City that left no human heart unaffected. Because how ever New York — the Strange Iron and Steel Beauty — came off to others, indifference was never among Her effects.

That morning, I quickly understood: In this City, I was in the minority. Time moved relentlessly quicker for all others; and in my aimless, fancy free wandering, I belonged to neither the tourists nor the exhausted locals, who made it a point to survive Her every day.

The street sweeper, who was swinging his broom with enough intention to cause a flurry of broken black ice against my ankles and smoking simultaneously, gave me a queer eye, from underneath his Russian fur hat. I had just passed him and made the mistake of smiling.

“Where is your coat, girl?” he growled in response, then puffed a visible cloud of nicotine in my face. Yep, he was Russian alright, and not in the least bit entertained by my getup of a single turtleneck, a little red hat and thin running shoes, with funkily striped ankle socks peaking out of them.

“Can’t run in a coat,” I gleefully shrugged. I was grinning.

Since when did I become so bouncy? Back in the days of my aspiring to be a hardcore New Yorker, this Amelie character I was currently channeling would annoy the shit out of me. But there I was: Having gotten older, I had managed to also get lighter. And if there were a single chronic mood of my soul — it would be its certain predisposition for gratitude.

To get my point across to the Russian, I began jogging lightly. Right foot, left foot… Ouch! Ouch! I hadn’t realized that my feet had gotten frozen in a matter of minutes of my being outside. Stepping on my toes, as if leaping over tiny puddles, was my new running technique acquired back in Cali. There, healthy living was merely a science; and I had actually studied it, not for the sake of getting off with others, at juice bars of some fancy, celebrity-ridden gyms of Hollywood — but for the sake of healing.

Fuck! I didn’t even know I needed it, to tell you the truth, until I finally settled down into the natural flow of the local time, so different from New York’s. It didn’t gnaw on my nerves and upset my inners. Nah. LA-LA had its own stresses and costs to the system, but at least there would be much more time — and space — to be a Self.

“‘Scuse me,” I sang out. I made sure to smile.

(Seriously: Who WAS that girl?!)

The bundled-up old woman, dragging her comatose Yorkie through the snow buried flowerbeds, looked back at me. A thought had no time to form in my head before she granted me the dirties elevator look since the one I earned from a Kardashian lookalike, on my first Hollywood attempt to go clubbing. (That young one assumed I was rubbing up against her man: A short and hairy creature in rhinestoned jeans buying her girlfriends a round of pink drinks. I, however, soaked from dancing my ass off next to the Go-Go Girls, was just leaning over the bar to ask for some water: A request hated by the bartenders all around the world (but hated a little less than when I requested a cup of coffee).)

Upon my “‘Scuse me?”, not even a centimeter did the old woman move over. Here, time and space had to be fought for; and considering she had to, most likely, persevere through mortal hell in order to own her rent-controlled apartment in Washington Square — the woman was highly unlikely to budge for my sake.

By that point, I could feel neither my toes nor my hands. Still, it would take a lot more than a couple of dirty or simply baffled looks from the locals to snap me out of my grateful mood.

“Just look at this, would you?!” I kept thinking.

The perfectly aligned, naked and black with wetness trees were covered with sticky snow. The skies were arguing with its fluffy clouds on whether to grant us some sun or snow that day. The skeletons of Christmas trees littered an occasional side of the road, but the smell of trash and sewers had been put on hold until the next warmer front.

Left foot, right foot… Right: Ouch! ouch! The black asphalt underneath my feet was sparkling with shards of ice. Leaping over the tiny puddles and seemingly fallen down stars, off I went: Navigating the seemingly different City unlike my former self claimed would have done.

But which one of us had changed more?

My every rhythmical exhale resulted in a visible cloud. I was hardly the only pedestrian, but definitely the only runner seen for miles. It was my new way of exploring new lands: Right foot, then left. Flying. Slowing down only to zigzag in between the baffled, sleepy or plain disgruntled locals.

The merger to continue onto the 10-East looped around the graffitied walls, arid lawns and long dead flowerbeds. With one-eighth of my gas tank, I was speeding and leaving the City — exhausted by traffic, lack of time and money, never-ending construction and unrealistic expectations of its dreamers — behind.

Right around Baldwin Park, the freeway got deceivingly wide: We were free flyin’. All of us! For a couple more zip codes, a few expensive cars would still zoom by me. But as Beemers and Benzes began to vanish like a mirage, I knew I was heading into the Inland Empire. An occasional five- or six-car train would crawl alongside the freeway; but despite some drivers’ strange road manners, I felt grateful for being able to dictate my own speed of moving — and having the wheels with which to escape.

There stood that giant brown Wells Fargo building of some hideous shape unknown in geometry. On the way back, I had learned to notice it every time. Even at night, I see its sign illuminated by the seemingly never ending, moving headlights and the sparking skyline of the City in which I had finally learned to live.

No, not “survive”, like I used to, back on the East Coast — in my more youthful days, when I had better habits for chasing or persevering time. Here, I had actually been living, on my own terms. And the case of my unrealistic expectations from the clocks and the traffic of LA-LA had been getting worse. But then, it was a commonly spread disease anyway.

My chosen radio station was still blasting:

“Ooh, sometimes: I get a good feelin’!”

Montclair’s malls sprawled out for miles. They were the first to signify that I was no longer in my City. I was leaving, chasing the clock; already late. It would be something I had to get used to, from then on: The nearly identical signs, imposed by the same corporations — over and over again! — would begin greeting me in every new city, from the side of the road. Malls, malls, malls: The only mode of entertainment. In Montclair, the modestly covered-up two-tailed mermaid of Starbucks reminded me about my promise to deliver some sugar-coma costing drink to motha. But then, they seemed to appear on my every other exhale, so I had time. I checked my dashboard: Shoulda gotten gas last night!

Mileages for Pomona’s exits began invading every road sign, from the top. That’s always the half-way point. In my old, two-cylinder clunker, climbing over this hill would have been a bitch. So, I would find myself in the slowest two lanes, crammed into the moving wall of white trailer trucks. And they would swing in and out of lane dividers and make my heart skip a beat. But somehow, especially around wintertime, they appeared hideously beautiful. From the furtherest left lane, I looked at the moving, swinging white wall. This route belonged to them. They were the common site of California’s self-sufficiency. And I loved it.

The Forest Lawn Cemetery overlooking our hustle and bustle from up a significant hill had a habit for a serene appearance. Perhaps, it’s because, in six years, I’d never seen a living human on its evenly green surface. The white statues at its gate hung above the otherwise flat surface. On every trip, I kept trying to figure out what they were: Angels? Warriors? The Relieved Deceased?

Motha had always liked cemeteries. This one seemed endless, so I’d better remember to bring her here, for a stroll. Lately, she had been obsessing about transferring her parents’ remains from a vanishing town, in the Far East of Russia.

“Otherwise, they’d disappear,” she’d been saying.

Holding on. That’s perfectly human.

“I wanted love! I NEEDED love! Most of all! Most of all!”

The radio was beginning to struggle with its waves.

Pomona happened with its horse racing tracks and a major attraction for County Fairs. After it, as always, I went blank until I came up on the convoluted exists of the Ontario Airport where I had originally landed, half a dozen years ago. The exits for Rancho Cucamonga would never call the city by its name. Too bad: It was the only truly idillic land for miles to come.

The mountain range that came up on the horizon after the halfway point would be the only other place of peaceful beauty. And it was looking mostly gray these days, with ice caps on top. Below them, in the valley, laid a land where people struggled and survived. But at least, time and traffic would move slower here.

The slightly tilted bridge of the 15-North onramp reminded me of a roller-coaster. I hated those! But there, I went: Whee!

Then, another freeway, recently renovated — and my radio began sounding like shit.

“We found love in a hopeless place…” — it gargled.

Turn that scratchy shit off! Get some gas!

I sped up.

Since the city limit of LA-LA, I hadn’t seen a single cop car, for sixty miles. And motha’s exit was coming up. I couldn’t believe I had pulled it off.

The gas light went on, while I was on the off-ramp negotiating my way behind a clunker of an uncertain make with horrifically smashed-in rear.

What this?! A 7-Eleven gas station? A wolf whistle came from behind me when I stepped one foot out of my car.

No more excuses could be fabricated for my resistance to visit her part of Cali; and unlike most children, I hadn’t fantasized about “getting out of LA” — for my sanity’s sake — and going “home”, since… well, never. Home had to be wherever the fuck I landed, for at least two decades of my life now. I hadn’t even let myself the martyrdom shtick since 1994. It’s just the way our family’s shit sorted itself out. So be it, eh?

Besides, each on their own, my old folks were kinda rad: funny and very specific. And as far as their parental duties were concerned, they had already done one hell of a job considering my Motha’land’s continuous turmoil.

This year, though, after missing all the major holidays in the last six months AND with my plans to avoid my daughterly obligations to visit for Christmas, motha’s birthday could NOT be missed. Well… Actually, it could. And it was. I had delayed my visit by nearly a week, but bargained that, on my visit, I would deliver a few make-up gifts. And take her out to dinner. And bring Starbucks.

So, there I was: Waking up early, after pulling my chronic, city-livin’ all-nighter, and immediately checking my iPhone for work emails. Anything to delay the reality of having to get out of bed and getting my ass rolling on the 10-East. Not once, not twice, but half a dozen times I touched base with my boss, in the morning. Look at me: All diligent and nearly altruistic, just mere weeks before bloody Christmas! While washing up — thirty minutes before my originally scheduled departure time — I missed a call from motha:

“Verra! Call me vhen you starrt drrivingg.”

Okay, motha. Will do.

But you know what I hadn’t done today yet? Yoga! I’d have to do that before I leave, because my centered self drove much better through every clusterfuck related to other people’s season of hysterical shopping. So, I did that.

Ooh, and you know what else? I’d better wash my car too.

In the bathroom of the carwash, another missed phone call from motha lit up my phone screen.

“I’m on my way,” I lied via a text: My ride wasn’t even getting soaped yet. “I can be there anywhere between 1:30 and 2:00.” (Had I noticed: The case of my unrealistic expectations from the clocks and the traffic of LA-LA had been getting worse?!)

In another thirty minutes, I finally climbed up — then down — onto 10 East.

“DOWNTOWN 12 MINUTES” — the first sign promised.

“I suppose I could still make it by my promised deadline,” a glimpse of hope inspired me to turn on some Christmas music. “Hey, this ain’t so bad!” I thought and attempted to whistle along. (I don’t know how to whistle, actually, so I was more like hissing along. Yeah. I hissed along.)

Culver and Century City zipped by me. (Or was it in the opposite order? I had always confused the two.) Downtown came up on me, in all of its newly built glory, in ten minutes. Gorgeous! Completely white and silver, it glistened in the sun. I checked my car’s thermometer. Sixty six degrees? Really? ‘Cause inside the greenhouse underneath my sunroof, it’s feeling closer to seventy two. And, as instructed, I was now carrying only sweaters in my suitcase.

I rolled down the windows. No, wait! Too much wind. I just washed my hair and it was doing its Medusa-in-a-Horrid-Mood routine. With just the passenger window down, though, the car began sounding like a jet plane in the midst of a turbulent take-off. Plus the smell of dust and endless construction smacked me out of my mood. With one whack of my fist, I turned off the jolly tune on the radio station.

Too early for Christmas, after all! Christmas was for other people, and their children heading “home”.

But I — was a busy working girl, wedging in some premature festivities into her life, and mostly out of guilt.

The orange diamonds of construction signs were sure to come up in a few minutes and right around the dodgy part of LA-LA, I noticed I was low on gas.

“Shit. Shoulda done that last night!”

It’s the worst habit of mine: Procrastinating with gas by thinking that there would be more hours in the next day of LA-LA. I examined the eroded walls of abandoned warehouses on the side of the freeway and chipping road signs, mostly in Spanish, and decided to see how long my tank would last.

The traffic wasn’t really crawling yet, but I could see a corridor of break lights for at least quarter of a mile ahead of me. Might be a while, but as we say in the Motha’land, “Whoever doesn’t risk — doesn’t get to drink champagne!”

The itch of my badass-ness needed some background music, so I smacked the radio again.

“Blame it on the ah, ah-ah-ah, ah-alcohol,” the new station blasted. That’ll do for now.

The merger to continue onto the 10-East looped around the graffitied walls, arid lawns and long dead flowerbeds. With one-eighth of my gas tank, I was speeding and leaving the City — exhausted by traffic, lack of time and money, never-ending construction and unrealistic expectations of its dreamers — behind.

“Oh, but everyone’s got these stories!” a man of tired compassion told me as he heard my saga of homecoming, this jolly holiday season. “I mean, after all,” he said, “this country is made entirely of immigrants!”

I wondered, as I studied his ethnically ambiguous face: Was he East Indian, a couple of generations removed from his native land and now free from all the confines of his original tradition — to make what he could of it? It not, how ever did he find his way into my yoga class?

Was he like me: Tasting all religions in his youth, in hopes of finding a recipe to peace? Some religious texts had tempted me with their poetry before; others — with their majority. I’d always wanted to belong, so I kept looking.

Was he, like me, at liberty to pick and choose between the details of his heritage, only wearing it when most convenient for his now American identity? Did he carry his comedy routines in side pockets: At the expense of his immigrant and heavily accented parents, he could whip ‘em out at gatherings of curious American friends? Did he practice the routines on paper first, or did he merely get addicted to the laughter he could cause — and so he’d work them out in public?

The evening city hummed and sparkled outside the windows. Across the street, I could see a casting space where I had once nearly died of shame by bumping into an ex-lover from a disastrous affair. He sat in the corner, with his giant legs stretched out ahead, sounding every bit like that one asshole actor who must practice his lines out loud, at full volume, in a waiting room filled with his competition and the rookies from Ohio.

That morning, I had announced official warfare against my acne; and my Hollywood haircut refused to cooperate at covering it.

I saw him first, pretended not to, and thankfully got called immediately. That’s when he must’ve heard my name; because by the time I had stepped out, he was standing by the doorway.

“I thought that was you!” he said and shifted on his feet as if leaning in for a hug.

Our story was so typical, it should’ve made it into a sitcom about actors in LA-LA: He wanted a rebound with someone with his ex’s Slavic face — another actress — and I had wanted more.

“No fuckin’ way, American buddy!” I thought.

But out loud, I said, “I’ve gotta run,” and blew my bangs out of my eyes. He noticed the stampede of pimples across my forehead: stubborn and multiplying. “Another audition! Gotta run!”

Everyone’s got these stories, it is true.My friends had all suffered, at least once, from having used someone for sex, or from having been used. And then, we’d all scrape up our dignity to have the courage to keep showing up: to other dates and to auditions; and to the companies of friends, where we readily whip out our comedy routines and force-feed ourselves with laughter.

To be happy here, it takes discipline. Or some serious delusion. Some of us had had those mental breakdowns that justified our flight from this fucking place. Others would just have an episode, go home to recover — then return for more.

The traffic crawled along the boulevard underneath. Two lanes of it: one fire-engine red, another — silver. An eatery at the corner was glistening with Christmas lights; and reflected by the changing colors of the traffic light, its giant windows would take on different shades, at well timed intervals. With the shimmer of the hills behind it, the city looked so pretty, suddenly. And standing above the traffic, out of it, I thought to find it peaceful. But then, I changed my mind.

I wanted to object to my ethnically ambiguous co-practitioner of yoga:

I saw him nearing the intersection, about half a block away, on foot. At first, I watched him pass my car, along the pavement: An ordinary man, like so many others.

His hair and beard were completely white (and I’ve always found it impossible not to trust white-haired people, for they seemed so much wiser than others). So, immediately, I thought of him not as much as handsome but somehow dignified; trust-worthy. Surely, I thought, he knew something I didn’t.

He wore a pair of well-ironed black slacks and a white dress shirt, unbuttoned at its collar. A pair of polished, laced-up shoes and a yellow manila envelope under his armpit: But of course! He had to be an important somebody!

Maybe he was someone’s tax accountant, I thought. Or, a divorce attorney walking over the final papers to a drained, tragic face of some recently single mother.

The fact that he was passing a gas station specifically for cop cars helped my fantasy, too. I had just noticed it the other day: What looked like a parking lot behind a film production building was filled with the killer whales of LAPD being served by a single, rusty gas pump. I didn’t know that the same people granting us our justice also had to pump their own gas. It made sense, of course; but my initial assumption that they were tended to, by someone else, made the idea of my world slightly better. Or, more just.

(That’s when I looked away: I was waiting for the traffic light to change. It hadn’t yet.)

I had just passed that one crowded intersection where every LA egomaniac insisted on wedging in the giant ass of his unnecessary Hummer, thinking that the yellow light would last forever — just for him! Instead, he would get stuck there, right in the middle of the mess, blocking the rest of us with an awkward tilt of his giant ass. Oftentimes, driven to the ends of our nerves by all the heat and strife already, we flip out, honk and scream at him, with lashing words and foaming saliva. Aha: Another day, in LA.

My own rage is so powerful, at times, it scares me:

What if I don’t manage to come back to the saner side again? What if I go way too far?

They had just erected a significant palace of yoga, precisely at that one intersection, where most of us are ready to lose our minds. (And those people granting us our justice: Why aren’t they granting it at that specific spot in the city?!)

On the other side of the street sits an ill-used parking lot, permanently fenced in by a giant net. Its neon orange sign reads “FENCES”. No shit! There is never enough parking in this city, and there is never enough space. Or, there is too much space — and not enough humanity.

But then, again, no one ever promised this city would all make any sense. No one ever promised for it — to be just.

And maybe, that is why it’s always so much harder to come back here, every time: Because we tread at the very end of our nerves, due to all the heat and strife, and some of us go way too far.

The white-haired man was walking slowly; and that was somewhat unusual, of course. But then again, he was nearing that one police station in Hollywood, where quite a few of my acquainted restless souls have spent a night or two, after losing their minds a little. Maybe he was someone’s DUI lawyer; or perhaps, he was delivering someone else’s bail. As he neared the pedestrian walkway, with the quickly expiring countdown on the other side, he began to squint his eyes: Eleven, ten, nine…

(And did I mention he was wearing glasses, with an elegant metallic rim? Yep: Definitely, an important somebody!)

“Ohhh… Ohhh, nooo!” he suddenly began to cry, quietly, almost under his breath. He wound up each word in a register unsuitable for a dignified, white-haired man, like him.

He stepped out onto the road and began to cross. Seven, six, five… He crossed right in front of my windshield.

“Ohhh, nooo!” He squinted again. “They took my car… Oh!”

I looked in the direction of his grief. The curbs in front of that one police station, in Hollywood, were completely empty. It was that time of the day when the rules demanded for us to give each other more space.

“They took my car…” The white-haired man continued, and in the way he stumbled onto the pavement at the end of his walkway, I thought he was way too close to collapsing on his feet: Way too close to his insanity — as he had gone way too far.

“I can’t take this — anymore…” he wept.

It separated inside of me and dropped — some dark feeling that comes from suspecting that nothing in the world had promised to be just. And that departure of my own hope scared me: What’s life — without hope?

Someone honked behind me: The light had changed, and I had to give them way. I had to give them enough space to pass into the lives that stressed them out ahead.

The Valley is glistening behind me, at a safe enough distance: It’s pretty, like a flat lake with reflecting stars. Kinda like in the old country. So, naturally: I prefer not finding myself on that side of the hill.

The Mulholland Drive Bridge ahead is a mess. Even in the dark, the demolition site looms like a war zone — or a film set for yet another apocalyptic flick, gratuitous with violence. What it doesn’t resemble, though, is the hopeful vision by LA-LA’s officials that it’s meant to be: For the sake of easing our commute. Oh, but how many delays this vision has cost us already! And how many more to come! (Thanks for looking out there!)

But at least, at nighttime, it’s safe to roll down the windows: The dust of the daytime construction has long settled.

And at midnight — we are all moving. We are trying speeds otherwise impossible, in the daytime.

Yes. We’re moving. We’re going.

Ow! But not so fast! Nearing Sunset, several pairs of standing construction lights give warnings of another mess ahead. I’m in the right lane, at this point, mostly out of habit: On this stretch of the road, I prefer sacrificing a few numbers on my speed dial in the name of changing my mind — and getting the fuck off this fucking freeway, at the very next exit! Here: I prefer to have a choice. So, at least until Wilshire West, I hang to the right. And I slow down.

The truck next to me seems to be having troubles staying in his lane. Its aluminum trailer with no written indications of its product, origin or destination, keeps swaying across the neon line and into my lane. I swear at him, back up and loom just a few meters behind — and to the most right. As soon as this curve in the road straightens out, I’m thinking, I’ll zoom past the wheeled monster whose driver must be delirious with the lack of sleep. Because I keep thinking: Only the most hardened of us take on these jobs. And in their own way — they are the most heroic.

For nearly a mile, I hang back; and when I finally pass him, I watch myself skip a few breaths at the sensation of being way too close to the concrete freeway divider, to my right. But, oh, how trilling it is — to be moving again!

Ow! But not so fast! Soon enough, I notice a yellow construction tank leading the traffic in the left lane.

“What the hell are these things called anyway?” I think of the clunky machinery of that exhausted yellow color, the sight of which on any road in LA-LA usually means bad news: Closed lanes, “Road Work Ahead”; indifferent construction workers, dust clouds; and a cop car with a bored rookie.

And the crawl! Alas, the crawl of traffic! The crawl of time, in LA-LA!

“Fuck it!” I think. “I’ll just call it ‘a tank’.” And this tank is crawling in the left lane, with a flashing yellow arrow threatening us into yielding.

But still: We are all moving, at midnight! We’re going!

Yes!

The road narrows. We’ve long passed Mulholland. And I can no longer see the glistening Valley behind me. It’s kinda like the old country, but slightly more brutal — in the daytime. So, naturally: I prefer not finding myself, on that side of the hill.

“What could they be possibly constructing at this hour of the night?!” I think.

By now, I’m balancing somewhere in between 60 and 70, but still: I’m moving! We — are moving.

I’m feeling overwhelmingly grateful. And there is no cure for that.

I’m heading home.

It’s been a long day. I’ve hustled, I’ve freelanced. I’ve driven all over this city. I’ve crawled in its traffic, chalking up the wasted time — to an investment in my dreams. And when most civilians have called it a day and taken their place in the crawling drudgery of the 405, heading home, I’ve left to spend my night in the company of artists. For hours, we’ve played, tonight; and we’ve cried.

And we’ve felt ourselves moving. Yes: We’ve found ourselves living!

So, yes: I’m feeling overwhelmingly grateful. And there is no cure for that.

By now, I’m doing 80 on the 405, at midnight.

Heading home.

I get off a few exits before mine. Thinking: I’m gonna cook at home.

Yes!

Ow! But now so fast! The roads are ridiculous, here: empty at this hour, but always bumpy. I start speeding again. I’m alone, with an exception of other adrenaline addicts, in their German cars. I’m sure they too have had to hustle, today. But now: They are moving.

We — are moving.

The autumnal selection of vegetables at the market snaps me into yet another degree of inspiration: It’s gonna be one of those creamy, hearty soups that can heal a soul, or a broken heart — or to bring back my love. To bring him back home. The day is long gone, but I’m still feeling overwhelmingly grateful. So, I’ll just carry it into the next day.

I load up my car. Speed home. Start up the chopping, the sizzling, the simmering. I substitute. I improvise. I think of my love. I think — of my loves, from earlier in the day.

And for the first time, I slow down. Because it’s already the very next day. And even though, I’ve carried my gratitude into it, I’d much rather start it up slowly.

I was studying the faces of passengers on a downtown-bound subway the other night, and I thought: Surely, these people had to be good. Because I would much rather subscribe to the idea that the world was primarily filled with good people. And I myself — would much rather be good, too.

(And I remember there was a man once who told me to never start a sentence with an “and”. And I didn’t listen. Obviously.)

I have nearly forgotten what it’s like to people-watch. Unless on a rare occasion of some public gathering in LA-LA, one must always keep the eyes on the road. Here, we drive, we speed; and we complain if we aren’t moving fast enough. All the other people become mere faces which we quickly glaze over, behind the wheels of other cars, at stop signs and in the oncoming traffic:

Everyone keeps their eyes on the road. Or on their cellphones, in the passenger seat.

Sometimes, I watch the faces reflected in my rearview mirror. And every once in a while, I steel a gaze or a nod from the guy over in the next lane. And that’s kind of nice. It’s good.

(And I do remember: There was a man once who told me to never start a sentence with an “and”. And I didn’t listen. Obviously. And I am glad — that I didn’t.)

The accidental faces of pedestrians tend to zoom by us. We aren’t used to them around here, unless driving through a rare public space expected to be packed with tourists. Yet, even then, we avoid making eye contact with them, as if these people — who are most likely good — are nonexistent. Instead, we nervously watch the quickly expiring gap to make a turn over a pedestrian walkway. And if the guy on foot isn’t moving fast enough, we pretend not to see him and cut in front. (Ah, shit! What an inconvenience!)

Some pedestrians have a certain swagger around here. They tend to live in those rare occasional spaces expected to be packed with tourists. As locals, they tend to take their time crossing the street. Ballsy, they make an eye contact with us, as if saying:

“What cha gonna do? Run me ova’?!”

So, you wait, embarrassed at having caught yourself at being less than good. And to avoid that shameful stare, you look over at your cellphone in the passenger seat.

The best thing is to wait. Sometimes, the guy waves you over. He’s moving on foot, and he knows he is not fast enough. Because even when we are on the road (while not always keeping our eyes on it), we often wish to be miles ahead. Around here, we are overwhelmed by the commitments that we continue negotiating on our cellphones in the passenger seat.

Here, we drive. We speed. LA-LA — is a working city, primarily. Sometimes, we pretend to fit our lives in between; but most of us have come here to work. And sometimes, we tend to forget that the world is still primarily filled with good people. And that, no matter the work, we ourselves would much rather be good, too.

(And I do remember: There was a man once who told me to never start a sentence with an “and”. And he also told me that not everyone — was good. And I didn’t listen. Obviously.)

This middle-aged Mexican woman napping, with her tired head leaned against an anti-terrorism warning: Surely, she’d put in a good day of work. And surely, she had to be good!

The man in a construction worker’s overalls: He looked like the guy stuck in our traffic for the entirety of his working day. His already dark skin was filled with dust, exhaust — and exhaustion. Because of his work, at some typical non-public space in LA-LA, there was probably more congestion on the road today. And he watched us driving, speeding by, wishing to be miles ahead.

The businessman in a suit that lacked the sheen of a designer label: He was staring down and a few feet ahead — in a New York subway fashion — and he wouldn’t steal as much as a gaze at a pretty girl who got on at the City College stop, at Santa Monica and Vermont.

And the pretty girl who got on at the City College stop: Under her arm she carried a thick tome of some nursing book I myself would find impossible to decipher. I wondered what made her choose the goodness of her future profession. And what made her choose to be good.

And surely, these other people — on the way home from their days of good work — had to be good, too!

Because I would much rather subscribe to the idea that the world was primarily filled with good people.